


The Hour Does Not Lend Itself to Displays of Nepotism

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Companion Piece, Fluff, Love, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An early morning vignette of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade's life. Somewhere at the background Sherlock and John are making their steps to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hour Does Not Lend Itself to Displays of Nepotism

  
Sex and food will be the downfall of the human race.  
  
When has Mycroft ever taken five seconds—five seconds—five!—between waking up and having a hundred percent grasp on reality: his surroundings, his personal circumstances, the map of Britain with all the glowing dots of current paperwork scattered over it like small fires waiting to be put out? Yet here he is in bed, a half-witted creature of comfort and flesh, taking those five seconds to go as far as figuring out it’s the doorbell that woke him up.  
  
Another three seconds later, and he’s advanced to unravelling the mystery of his whereabouts. God help the British Isles.  
  
The body pressed against his back stirs and a spark of hope flares behind Mycroft persistently closing eyelids—at least the person with whom he’s sharing the bed was identified instantantly. Although Mycroft shouldn’t hurry to rejoice on account of his regained intellectual prowess— _that_ feat was probably due to how special said person is. An idiot wouldn’t remember being in bed with—  
  
“Gregory,” Mycroft says. “He won’t stop ringing the bell until you answer the door.”  
  
There’s a pleasant tickle along the entire length of Mycroft’s body, from his neck to his calves, as Greg shuffles behind him.  
  
“Wha’?” he asks, voice drowsy. “Who?”  
  
“Sherlock. He’s probably found a way to track down the owner of that bike.”  
  
Ah. Thank God, Mycroft’s not entirely useless after all. Definitely out of shape, though. Sherlock does have a point about digestion slowing down the mental processes. Mycroft’s lip curls at the thought of what Sherlock might experience if the other distraction is thrown into the equation. Preparations will have to be made for some rather exuberant demonstrations of shock and panic. Only a year ago Mycroft would have gone back to sleep, having nothing to worry about—the prospect of his brother finding a sexual partner being as imminent as the prospect of Mycroft finding a partner, full stop. Yet here he is…  
  
As to Sherlock, that look John Watson has acquired around him lately—not entirely dissimilar to the look of a cow chewing the cud—makes Mycroft dread the near future. Sherlock, for his part, has long found in John the trunk to his magnificent branches and crown—it’s only a matter of time before he realizes the full implications of it. So, with father and mother dead, and with Sherlock and Mycroft being the only children, the weight of a _very_ late conversation on the homosexual ways of some birds and bees might be in store for Mycroft.  
  
Greg stretches, growling lightly. A second later the room is lit by the bedside lamp and Mycroft is left lamenting the loss of Greg’s warm body. Maybe Sherlock deserves the horror of the kind of talk Mycroft’s just contemplated. It should teach him to leave people alone at—  
  
“It’s bloody six in the morning,” Greg mumbles, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at his watch. Mycroft rolls around into the spot Greg’s body has just vacated. He watches Greg’s back shift under the white t-shirt as Greg stretches to pick up his socks from the floor, and puts them on. “Your brother’s insane, you know that,” Greg says under his nose.  
  
No answer is expected of Mycroft so he reaches out and lightly squeezes a fleshier bit just over the rim of Greg’s pyjama bottoms.  
  
“Oi,” Greg says over his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”  
  
It’s too early for an eye roll.  
  
“I like doing that,” Mycroft says plainly. They’ve had this conversation three times already; in all fairness, it’s gone both ways. Mycroft’s hand slides instinctively under the covers to find his own belly.  
  
Greg stands up and turns around. Mycroft looks up at him, drinks in the mess of his spiky hair, the lovely, sleepy droop of his shoulders, and he thinks that for Sherlock he would make an exception. Mycroft would present Sherlock with a big, particularly patronizing eye roll at _any_ hour.  
  
Greg heads to the door, then stops in his tracks, and turns to Mycroft again.  
  
“Erm,” he starts. Mycroft privately smiles at his early morning eloquence. He lifts himself on his elbows.  
  
“You’ve known him for six years,” he says, unable to hide the note of reproach in his tone. “What is the scope of his mind, you think, when he’s working on a case?”  
  
Greg blinks, then nods. Mycroft smiles at him warmly. It’s dawn-time on Saturday. Greg is doing well.  
  
Mycroft can construct more or less the entire conversation downstairs from the context of the last few days and from the odd word he catches. John is evidently too tired for—literal—words. The threat of Mycroft and Greg being found out is close to non-existent, then. Sherlock _is_ completely unable to think of anything else while he’s on a hot scent, but more importantly, it’s like his brain obliterates any need for him to know anything that isn’t directly related to the case. And John, while showing conspicuous shrewdness when it comes to human relationships, is practically comatose from lack of sleep. He’s probably here only to prevent Sherlock from doing something stupid, just in case Greg found his limits with Sherlock and denied him his request. But the good doctor is going to be sleeping soundly soon—today will not be that day.  
  
To confirm Mycroft’s deductions, upon returning to the bedroom Greg informs him in a whisper, “You were right—he’s found a way to track down that guy and he’s come to fetch me for a little ride.”  
  
Greg smiles at his own turn of phrase and Mycroft indulges him, but his face turns sour.  
  
“I hope he’s wrong,” he says, uncaring that his resentment lacks any subtlety.  
  
Greg raises his eyebrows. Mycroft raises his own back.  
  
“The hour does not lend itself to displays of nepotism,” he murmurs.  
  
Greg shakes his head. “Talk normal, please—it’s too early.”  
  
Mycroft smiles.  
  
“Where are you going to?” he asks, trying not to sound too petulant.  
  
Greg’s already stripped his t-shirt. Mycroft feels weak with need—he loves the tuffs of hair on Greg’s chest to the point of stupidity.  
  
“Some bikers’ gathering thirty miles from here,” Greg replies, while taking off his pyjama bottoms. He stands still for a moment, holding Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft flushes, belatedly realizing Greg had to _wait_ for Mycroft’s eyes to meet his. He squirms inwardly, baffled for a hundredth time at his irrational reactions around Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft was inside this man's body less than seven hours ago, for goodness sake. The t-shirt with Greg’s semen is still in the furthest corner of the room, thrown there with unusual skill last night—Mycroft just _can’t_ learn to like the smell of it—and whose hand made Greg produce the semen? Whose hand played with cruel delight with Greg’s penis? The same penis that now Mycroft is blushing for being caught barely looking at. It’s ridiculous.  
  
Besides, he wasn’t looking only at it. He was looking at all of Greg. Mycroft likes Greg naked, just as he likes how despite his recent weight-related self-consciousness, Greg continues to be overall very relaxed in his nudity. Mycroft envies him for it.  
  
Greg grins suddenly. “I swear that brain of yours is just…Switch it off and go back to sleep.”  
  
He heads to the door and Mycroft quickly lifts his head to have a better look at his backside. Hand on the door handle, Greg turns around. Mycroft can’t see his features very well, but they appear softer. “I hope to be back in a few hours,” Greg says very quietly, then pauses. His voice is barely audible when he asks, “Do you have to— Are you still going to be here?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft replies in a moment. He has so much work, but there are the plans one makes, and then there are the things one actually does. Greg flashes him his full-toothed grin and slips out of the room.  
  
Mycroft muses that with all traces of his scent washed away with Greg’s shower gel, on goes down the drain even the slimmest chance of Sherlock figuring out that his brother has started seeing his favourite policeman. A vague protest tries to gnaw at Mycroft…Or is it regret?  
  
Greg is back in four minutes, fresh and tasting of Sensodyne. Mycroft props his pillow up on the bed headrest and leans against it, observing Greg as he quickly gets dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. The jeans catch Mycroft’s attention not just for the way they make Greg’s hips look like they need to be chained to the bed for the entire weekend, left entirely at Mycroft’s whim and will. Mycroft itches to turn the jeans over and over in his hands, read Greg’s story on them, figure out quiet, melancholic secrets and buoyant moments of everyday happiness. There is so much more he doesn’t know about Greg yet, so much more he cannot wait to find out.  
  
Mycroft purses his lips and keeps them pursed as he swallows. Nothing he discovers about Greg will ever be unimportant. Mycroft will treasure the random facts of how many rooms Greg’s first home had, at what age he learnt to swim, how much he paid his divorce lawyer, the name of Greg’s first teacher, what sort of Subway sandwich Greg prefers the most. (Mycroft has accepted the grave fact that Greg comes with baggage, his abysmal taste in cuisine a big part of it.)  
  
Mycroft has his hypotheses on plenty of trivial and significant facts about Greg, but hearing confirmation from the horse’s mouth is something to look forward to entirely on its own right. Greg has taught Mycroft two very important things already. One, some very creative uses of the human tongue. Two, the difference between deducing things about their owner from examining a pair of jeans and _knowing_ things about him from holding them in your hands.  
  
Greg is ready. He leans over to kiss Mycroft again, the scent of his leather jacket in his right hand giving the texture of his tongue extra boldness. Mycroft cups his jaw, holds him closer for a second longer, reluctant to release him.  
  
“Open the curtains,” he murmurs against his mouth, and lets go. Greg gives him another peck on the lips, goes around the bed to switch off the lamp, pulls the curtains open, and leaves the room with a soundless _Bye_.

**Author's Note:**

> Half a year ago I wrote a series of six stories in six days, called ["Five Times John Was Jealous and One Time He Did Something about It"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/13801). The second story, ["Space for Two"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/310700), was Lestrade-centric and this is a companion piece to it. Dedicated to the lovely [](http://sige_vic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sige_vic**](http://sige_vic.livejournal.com/) for her effort in bringing my Mystrade to the Russian-speaking fan community.
> 
> Unbetaed. Apologies for any mistakes!


End file.
